Yes, Virginia, there is a Purgatory

Many times, I have said – with hand on Bible – I’d rather cover the war in Iraq than the New York State Fair.

But Camp Liberty has set a new bar for hellhole desolation in the universe of my verbal analogies.

It is so hot that you can’t use the metal latrines after 11 a.m. You will boil.

It is so windy that the Port-O-Potties are staked to the ground. (I am trusting here that it is wind, not pranksters, who are being thwarted.)

It is so unspeakably unlivable that I wonder what the U.S. government was thinking when it decided to put a base here. Were they planning to simulate Death Valley? Were they doing field tests on human bodily torture? This place is hot. When the sand blows, you have to bend forward, close your eyes and plod. Nobody walks here. They trudge.

Recently, I’m told the famous Denver Bronco Cheerleaders came here to put on a show. Good for them. Not only that, but I always liked John Elway.

But I wish I could have seen the looks on the Bronkettes’ faces when they stepped off the plane and into that 120-degree devil wind.

I hope they’ve changed their agent.

And I look forward to their inevitable appearance at the New York State Fair.